You don't know how ill I am.
You don't understand.
The tension in my diaphragm is like a pit, black and gaping.
I feel the way it empties. I feel it sink.
You don't know the way my head spirals in thoughts.
You don't know that everyone is out to get me.
You don't know that I'm vindictive.
You don't know how bad my scalp is bleeding right now.
You don't know that I cry myself to sleep.
Oh god, the things I wish I could tell you.
You don't know how bad I've thought of saying them.
You don't know I know where it hurts.
You don't know I stopped myself from going for it.
You don't know about the nausea. You don't know about the pain.
You don't know how often I think of you.
How I think of the things you said.
How I think of the things I did.
How I think of the way I felt.
You don't know how ill I am.
You'll never understand.
Because I'm so very good at hiding it.
The slouch of my back.
The white in my hair.
The itch on my head.
The doubt in my mind.
I count the numbers by one, two, three.
I am not a celebrity.
Nor was I ever an accessory.
You don't know how you ruined me.
YOU ARE READING
ballads of heartbreak
Poetry"I'm sorry that I'm like this, I'm trying my best" -essentially a diary, slight tw for being self destructive & harmful, some really good stuff crammed in with a bunch of nonsensical three am cry sessions
